


visitation rights

by waldorph



Category: Glee
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cooper is back in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	visitation rights

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is based on that [duet](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cay2dnuhcs&feature=player_embedded) promo between Darren Criss and Matt Bomer's characters on Glee, because it's incestuous and terrible and not anything brothers should sing to each other, and, you know, **screamlet** basically threw down the challenge and I'm weak and accepted. **lazulisong** did not help at all, and **waketosleep** was sick and, you know. 
> 
> It should be noted I have not watched Glee since the first season, and I know nothing about what Matt Bomer's character is supposed to be like except that he's an actor(?) and Blaine's older brother and he sang this song. So, any canonical errors, terribly sorry but this is incestuous porn- what do you want from me?
> 
>  **screamlet** beta'd, which I would thank her for but since this was her fault she basically had to. Um, I'd like to blame her for the terrible in this but it's me. She does, however, get credit for the title.

The thing is, you’re eighteen now. Graduating from high school with a boyfriend and prospects and every intention of going to New York. You’re well-liked, have more friends than you know what to do with, and when he comes back you feel like such an infant.

He comes back like it’s nothing. Like he wasn’t your first kiss and he doesn’t have all these pieces of you stored up in his pockets; like you haven’t worn his touch and this feeling under your skin like bruises, sure they were visible to everyone.

He comes back to town and they all love him, even the people who should hate him are charmed by him, and you want, so hard, to resent him for it. 

Everyone at school thinks he’s amazing, and Mercedes told you she thought it was really nice that you had such a supportive older brother the other day. You don’t know how to tell her that yeah, he’s great, and then he fucks off and “loses his phone” or “gets busy with work” and you don’t see him. And he plays brother when it suits him and he plays lover when it suits him and you never quite know him well enough to pin down which part he’s going to be playing.

Like when he sits at the dinner table and stretches out his long legs and brushes his feet against yours casually. You never could tell when there was intent, and you sit half-hard through dinner while your mother asks him about his friends, about being Fiyero; is he enjoying himself? Your father smiles, proud of the son who moved to New York out of high school and _made it_ , came out and fell in with a slightly bohemian crowd, got reviewed in the _Times_ and who you’ve known for the last five years in emails, twitter, and blog posts.

Kurt thinks you’re experienced, and you told him there was an older boyfriend who moved away. It’s true, you just never mentioned that he wasn’t your boyfriend.

And really, throughout the week, you wish you were thinking about Kurt, who loves you and cares about you and who you’ve never questioned. Kurt, who’s solid and won’t leave.

You should call him, but you’ve been avoiding Kurt all week, your ass full of someone else’s dick, your mouth full of your brother’s cock. Because you are such a slut for him, spread out and gagging for it constantly, first thing in the morning and any time he looks like he might want it, might be interested.

The thing about him, though, is that he’s this great actor. He really is--he’s got the talent you’ve never had to be everything everyone wants him to be. He’s a good son and a good brother and a good fuck but you’re never quite sure where you stand with him. Never quite sure when everything is going to get pulled out from under you, so you take everything you can get and ignore the clock ticking down to departure, because he’s going to leave.

Like now, when he walks into the room you inherited from him and locks the door, fresh out of a shower with just a white towel on. You don’t hesitate, crowding against him and leaning up to press your lips to his, letting him laugh a little against them, teasing.

 _Do you want me?_ he asks, almost coy despite the proprietary hand in your hair, tangling just enough to hurt, the pain sparking in the corners of your eyelids.

 _Don’t--_ you start, weak as you drop to your knees, hands pushing the towel away. He grips your hair a little tighter, keeping you from mouthing his half-hard dick.

 _Do you want me?_ he repeats, and you look up and nod, pleading, already so hard against your jeans, leaking in your boxers, and it’s all you can do not to grind against his leg.

 _Open up_ , he murmurs, and you do, letting him tilt your face up, thumb your lower lip just this side of too-hard, always more interested in the aesthetics than how you felt. You shudder, leaning into the touch, eyes heavy suddenly.

He looks so pleased with himself, in control, but this is just another face he’s put on. He’s beautiful, though, just a hint of a flush, and there’s maybe something real in the heat in his eyes. Hot and just for you, and maybe this is why you love this. Love to suck the head of his cock, pump it and admire the shape of it.

There’s something about this, the fact that he’s naked, damp and should be vulnerable. You’re still dressed down to your shoes, cardigan over your shirt and bow-tie still in place. It all feels like defenses made of cotton candy.

 _Shhh, shh,_ he soothes you, thumb still against the corner of your mouth. He dips it in alongside his cock, smears spit along your lip, anchors you in place with just the single digit, coaxes your jaw to open. He pulls back, just a little, not enough to give you space or let you up, just enough to take his dick and smear precome over your lips like a victory lap.

There is no one, you think, who makes you want to be a bigger slut. But then, he taught you how. How to want this so badly you could die of it. You moan hoarsely, tucking your lips over your teeth while he begins to fuck in. Kurt fumbles, makes sure the pace is alright, but here there’s none of that. He moves with such entitlement, never questioning that you’re going to suppress your gag reflex, swallow him down hungrily, take everything he’s willing to give you.

And God, you do love this. You love being here, nose buried in the carefully manicured patch of wiry hair at the base of his dick, throat full of the heat of him. Your mouth is slick and wet around him, chin a mess but you hum in satisfaction when his hand--the one not pressed against your jaw--tightens in your hair.

 _Breathe,_ he tells you when he pulls out, and you do, heaving great gasps, mind going soft and hazy, the entire world condensed to his cock in your throat and his balls against your chin, the way his breath hitches. It’s not demanding, and it’s not fumbling, and sometimes you want sex just to be this simple; someone rocking his hips while his cock goes deeper into your throat until you’re full of it, and you realize with a start that you’re going to come.

But he stops, because he’s not done yet, pulls back and pumps his dick thoughtfully, looking down at you with his pale eyes, the light from the bedside table doing nothing to soften the sharp lines of his face, and God, fuck, you think. He’s beautiful.

 _Take it off,_ he tells you, turning to bend over and slide his hand between the mattress and boxspring of his old bed, where you keep your lube, and you almost trip out of your pants staring at his ass.

He’s gotten more defined, you think, and he must be militant about his waxing regimen because there’s not a stray hair anywhere; smooth everywhere except for the patch above his dick.

 _Bend over it,_ he says, gesturing to the bed, slicking his dick and pumping it lazily. You flush a little as he glances at your dick, bobbing hopefully as you bend, spreading your legs and bracing your forearms against the bed, dipping your back like something out of a porno. You want to make this good, because fuck, you feel so good. Your throat hurts, jaw aching and a bruised feeling in the corner of your lower lip, and you’re probably going to have to fake a cold tomorrow at school.

You’re not quite loose enough for no prep, despite the fact that he fucked you this morning, and you make some kind of desperate sound when he rubs his dick against your asshole, laughing and pressing a kiss against your shoulder blade before pushing three slick fingers into you, scissoring and stretching and too soon there’s a fourth finger and you’re stuck, hovering at that point between too-fucking-much and not enough and it hurts, all-consuming. You whimper, shudder and gasp because he’s reached around, sliding his slick fingers up and down your dick, jerking you off and God, God. _Please_ , you gasp, and that’s the magic word.

The hand drops away, settles with its partner on your hips, thumbs spreading you apart as he lines himself up.

 _Shit_ , he breathes as he pushes into you, steady and unrelenting and not asking, pausing and checking in to make sure you’re okay and your fingers are clenching in your comforter, threads snapping, breath coming too hot and you push your face into the fabric to muffle the needy noises you’re making.

 _Fuck, you’re so tight,_ he croons, and you want to laugh and scream, fucked open and raw and he just keeps pushing, filling you up until you’re conquered.

 _Please_ , you’re begging, you’ve been begging, a soft current of sound in harmony to the slick sounds between you, and something shifts and suddenly you’re keening, dripping wet and shit, shit, fuck, he’s hitting your prostate and murmuring, soft and low and careless, _Come for me_.

He’s slid a hand around, the back of it brushing against your leaking dick as he presses against your abdomen, making the heat at the base of your spine hotter, making him feel even bigger inside you, like you’re going to come apart but you won’t care.

You scrabble at the bed, shoving back and whining high in your throat, over-sensitized and desperate, gasping for air, and he laughs, this hot, deep sound that you feel more than hear. _Come on, Blaine_ , he says. _Show me_.

Your parents are three doors down, and that’s what stops you from shouting, that and the fact that you’re asphyxiating yourself in the covers, clenching down on him as your orgasm rips through you, curling your toes and arching your back and tightening your fists and you’re shooting all over your comforter, which is going to be a bitch to clean and he’s an asshole, such an asshole, making these smug sounds as he continues fucking into you. Doesn’t care you’ve gone limp under him, his hands on your hips the only thing keeping you even half-up. You’re shaking, trembling through aftershocks every time he hits your prostate, and he’s bent over you. His breath is hot against your neck and he’s shoving into you, losing the rhythm of it and just driving into you hard enough to knock your shins into the bed frame.

His fingers tighten on your hips and press bruises into your skin. You can feel him coming, hot inside you, the shallow, lazy thrusts making a mess of you, pushing it deeper into you and slicking you up, and when he pulls out you can feel come sliding down your thighs.

 _God, you’re a mess_ he laughs, stepping back, sliding his fingers into your abused hole. _Perfect_ he murmurs, and you let him push you down, spread over you and slide his fingers into your mouth. He watches as you suck them clean, then presses a biting kiss to your lips.

 _Go take a shower,_ he says. _I’ll run a load of laundry._

So you do, grabbing your bathrobe and walking carefully, clenching and trying to keep the come in your ass from leaking down your leg and onto your mother’s new carpet. It’s all so fucking obscene, but you put the water on hot and slide your fingers inside, dick already hard again and you’re coming so hard you slip, barely catching yourself.

He’s carefully put together when you come back in, not even flushed, not really, anymore. He smiles, a slippery-slick thing, and tells you he’s got to go, _Andy’s having a crisis and you know what his fucking crises are like_.

Except you don’t know, haven’t even heard him mention Andy before, but he’s shrugging on his leather jacket and grabbing his suitcase before you can think of anything to say.

Your parents are downstairs watching something on NBC, and they look sad, but not surprised when he breezes through an explanation, all contrition and big eyes pleading with them not to be angry with him, but he has responsibilities in New York--things that can’t wait, and if Andy relapses again he just doesn’t know what Angela will do.

Your mother hugs him and your father hugs him and then calls a cab, and you stand, awkward, at the bottom of the stairs and tell yourself you knew this was coming. You’re still open and sore and you’re standing here and watching him walk away again.

Tomorrow you’ll go to school and kiss your boyfriend and after a week some new drama will take hold and everyone will stop talking about your brother. And in a month or so your mom will tell you some little tidbit she’s gleaned from his blog or you’ll read something about him and he’ll just be...somebody that you used to know.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Blanket Permission:** go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!
> 
> [twitter:](https://twitter.com/waldorph) for unfiltered me || [tumblr:](http://waldorph.tumblr.com/) less about me, more about the pretty gifsets and art


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